


Recalibration

by Noxilicious



Series: Harry Holmes [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bogus Deductions, Canon Compliant, Family Drama, Gen, Genius Harry, Hurt/Comfort, Muggle Sherlock, Parent-Child Relationship, Parentlock, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Prisoner of Azkaban, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Good Parent, lotsa fluff, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8604169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxilicious/pseuds/Noxilicious
Summary: Mycroft more or less finds himself constantly cleaning up his dear brother’s messes, but in the case of one Harold William Holmes-Evans, he might just prove to be the one ‘mistake’ he won’t be able to rectify.





	1. Crashing

_“Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother Sherlock. Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife, I own Mycroft.”_

_There is nothing to be done._

_“Come on, for Mary, bring me your face.”_

_“Let me flick your face.”_

_John._

_“That’s… not… Lady Smallwood.”_

_“…Mary?”_

_John is in danger. Mary is in danger._

_“Why are you smiling?”_

_“Because Sherlock Holmes has made one_ enormou _s mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear.”_

_They will never be safe._

_“Sorry, no chance for you to be a hero, Mr Holmes.”_

_As long as_ he _is alive, John will never be safe._

_“Merry Christmas!”_

_For John. For Mary._

_BANG._

Pale eyes startled wide open. Sherlock breathed erratically, gripping his simple, grey uniform trousers under the table with such strength that his knuckles turned deathly white. Frantically looking around him, he noticed the loud sound had been a result of his heavy, horrible cell door having been open and shut.

And in front of him stood a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit.

Sherlock quickly let go of his trousers, placing his hands together in his lap to hide their trembling and leaned back in his chair. His face smoothed into a careful expression of casual disinterest.

“Mycroft,” he drawled uncaringly. “I see they wouldn’t allow you your beloved companion.”

Said man sighed and took two even steps to fall into the empty, bolted chair. “Unfortunately. I believe they said something along the lines of ‘dangerous items’.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would choose an infinitely more satisfying method than poking your eyes out with your own umbrella. And if I had wished to commit suicide, I would have been long dead, despite however successful these idiots _think_ they have been in removing any ‘dangerous items’ from my person,” Sherlock muttered disparagingly. “How mind-numbingly dull.”

Mycroft raised a well-maintained eyebrow. “Indeed. However, I believe this may prove to alleviate your boredom momentarily.”

With this, he opened his non-descript dossier and extracted a few files, which he placed on the table within Sherlock’s reach. Taking them and looking them over, Sherlock’s gaze brushed over them analytically for a few seconds, before an absent smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

They were a few photos depicting a wrinkled, red-faced baby wrapped in a pink blanket, some including a woman with short blonde hair and a tired smile holding said baby, respectively a greying man gazing at them with a proud smile, a joyful tear sparkling in the corner of his eye.

Among those photos were the copies of a birth certificate which read:

_Emily Jane Watson, born February 8 th 2015\. _

“I am told your goddaughter and her mother are both healthy and have already been released from the hospital. The good doctor may deign to visit to deliver the news himself in a few days.”

_“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”_

_“I think it could work,” Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the ground, then, “Jane.”_

_“Who?”_

_“As a middle name. She was… someone of importance to me.”_

_John studied his face with some surprise, but didn’t push. “I’ll talk it over with Mary. Sounds good though. Got to have something of mine as well.”_

Sherlock carefully wiped any traces of a smile and set the files back on the table. “Entertaining as this is, you are not one prone to sentimentalisms.” Mycroft snorted quietly, privy to a previous situation in which he himself had uttered similar words. “Why are you here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft tapped his fingers against the table once, twice… then he carefully reopened the dossier and turned pages until a point, where he stopped and slid a finger thoughtfully down said file.

“While in the process of carefully erasing your tracks within Appledore, one of my men came across some papers. They appeared to be information which the late Mr Magnussen had unearthed only recently and had not yet taken the time to submit to his ‘vaults’.”

The older Holmes brother continued regarding the file with great consideration, not sparing Sherlock even one look.

“Tell me, brother dear, does the name Lily J. Potter ring a bell?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally, before he grew cold, merciless. His light eyes turned icy as he glared, remaining silent.

“She has been thoroughly researched and had been marked to be added to the list of pressure points on _you_. Issue is, I have never before heard of her in my life, thus this must be someone you took great care in hiding from me, and incredibly seem to have succeeded in doing so. Care to enlighten me as to why that is?”

His younger brother merely continued to glare venomously, his jaw tightly clenched and one of the veins in his neck throbbing with his agitation.

Mycroft pursed his lips in exasperation and a touch of anger. His brother had already created enough of a disaster when he selfishly killed a public figure in cold blood for the sake of his doctor and his little wife. That he continued to refuse to cooperate was certainly not making his situation any better.

He would have to resort to alternative methods with this particularly sensitive problem.

“No matter. I suppose you are aware of Mrs Potter’s untimely demise 12 years ago?”

“Get to the point, _brother_ ,” Sherlock’s voice shook with barely restrained fury.

“It may come as an interest to you that she has left behind a son,” pale eyes slid back to regard him cautiously. “And that said son is being raised in a questionable manner. Most probably against the wishes left in her will.”

“’Most probably’?” Sherlock asked in slight disbelief. Mycroft was not one to rely on unconfirmed data, except perhaps when under extreme duress.

“Lily Potter’s last will and testament has not been read yet, unlike that of her spouse. One wonders.”

The detective frowned and his gaze dropped to the table. He remained in thoughtful silence. Mycroft gathered the photos and placed them back in the dossier, closing it with a soft snap and rising from his seat.

“Whatever the circumstances, I’m sure the least you can do to honour her memory is to ensure her child’s safety and happiness,” Mycroft prodded.

Instantly, Sherlock’s hands banged on the table, the sound echoing loudly within the small room. “Do not speak of matters you know _nothing_ of, Mycroft,” his baritone voice rumbled quietly, dangerously.

He merely nodded stiffly and turned to leave, his lips a thin line of discontent.

_This time, brother dear, I’m afraid I hold over you knowledge of the one thing I wish I did not._

…

Rhythmic _tap-taps_ could be heard within the small, well-off neighbourhood. Coming to stand right at the entrance to it, Sherlock Holmes looked up to the sign naming it.

_Privet Drive._

His pale eyes analysed it warily as he hesitated to advance. Him, the great consulting detective, the high-functioning sociopath, daunted by the sight of a quaint, monotonous residential area? Preposterous.

And yet…

Sherlock knew that he was most likely about to make a great mistake. What, really, was he doing here, digging up graves, reopening old wounds and all that nonsense? And for whom?

For Harry Potter, apparently. The nearly-thirteen year old son of a woman whose name he had not heard in years. A woman who he had tried hard not to think of ever since she had been found dead in her own home, together with her husband.

Mycroft had been right that he had been aware of her death but not of her reproduction, and following his dear brother’s visit, Sherlock found himself in greater turmoil than he already had been. For six months he was plagued by the thought of a little boy with bright red hair, _Lily’s_ bright, wild hair, and an even brighter smile, by the thought of a boy with Lily’s features bowing his head fearfully, arms thrown over his head protectively as he curled into himself, away from those abusive hands, away from danger…

Much as he had tried to further this matter from his mind, he was unable to. And so, although Sherlock was very much aware of the sensitive ground he was treading on, he knew he had to see for himself, and after he had been dealt a blow, he would finally be able retire to his _– empty, so very empty_ – flat in Baker Street and tend to his injuries and maybe finally heal, after all these years. He would return to his Work, aid the hopeless Lestrade and his subordinates, withstand Mrs Hudson’s nagging and Mycroft’s snooping, entertain the Watsons once in a while and all would be right in the world.

With his definition of peace and tranquility in mind, Sherlock took a deep breath and made the first step into Privet Drive. Then the next, and then the one following it…

Immediately after his release from a six-month imprisonment – a mere slap on the wrist compared with the sentence he _should_ have served for first-degree murder, had he been an ordinary citizen who could not escape without difficulty from a penal institution – he had conducted some research into the mysterious son of Lily and James Potter.

Not much had surfaced during this investigation. Indeed he had been able to extract the name of the child, _Harry_ – what a dull name, he had expected more – who was currently residing with his relatives in Surrey, and that he had previously attended St Grogory’s Primary School, along with his cousin. Once he had finished primary, he had fallen off the grid. There was no mention of a Harry Potter in any local secondary school, and further research showed that he was not studying anywhere else within London either. Either the boy was a drop-out, or he had been sent to a boarding school. But what self-respecting little white picket fence family would send their own son to a local school and the supposedly hated relative to a boarding one, which would no doubt prove to be expensive?

Inquiries made to the Homeless Network revealed that the boy was often seen tending to the garden or being chastised by his aunt or uncle, but that he himself did not get out of the house much, and that during the academic year he was nowhere to be found, which supported the theory of the boarding school.

Suspicions were lurking in the back of Sherlock’s mind about the odd circumstances of Lily Potter’s offspring, and he was not sure how he felt about them being true. But, at the moment, he could theorise no further, because residence Number Four was upon him, and the detective had never felt so jittery in his life.

Raising one gloved hand, he knocked professionally on the door, as he would when looking to interview a friend of the victim. After a good, solid two minutes, the entrance door was pulled open to reveal a woman in her mid-thirties of well below-average physical qualities, clad in an unattractive, housewifey floral dress.

The woman was analysing him as much as he her, though in a much less subtle and objective manner, if her hands which were patting her hair attentively into her coiffure were a sign of anything.

“Yes?” she offered pleasantly, smiling at him and blinking all too often.

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes in advance at the tediousness of all that was coming. He returned the smile shortly. “Are you Mrs Petunia Dursley?”

“I am. Can I help you?”

“I am an old friend of Lily’s. I knew her when she was studying at University. Sherlock Holmes,” he extended his hand to shake hers. Mrs Dursley’s eyes had grown cold at the sound of her sister’s name, but she appeared surprised at the mention of college.

“I didn’t know that she ever attended University. But I am afraid my sister has been dead for quite a few years,” the latter was stated without much sorrow and longing.

“I am aware,” he returned calmly. “However, it has come to my knowledge that her son is currently in your care and I would very much like to meet him, if it is not much of a bother. Lily and I had been quite close.”

At this, Mrs Dursley’s horse-like features turned wary and reluctant. Clearly, she was not eager to present her nephew to the general populace. However, something in his clothing or manner of holding himself convinced her that he might be a powerful man who could retaliate if denied, because she took one more assessing look, then invited him in.

He got to meet the uncle, Vernon Dursley, and he deduced that he held a ‘man = head of the house’ reign, that he had a raging temper, his sister was as atrocious and obese as he and he was most likely having an affair with someone from the office. Also, by the constipated look on his face when Harry was brought into the discussion, he was the one most offended by the boy and thus most likely the one who inflicted injury the majority of the time, either verbal or physical, much as Sherlock loath to even consider it.

‘Duddykins’ was unfortunately out with his friends at the moment and was unavailable to meet him. Sherlock was indifferent on this, mostly because he had already deduced that the boy was spoiled rotten and well on his way to either various health issues as a result of his obesity or acts of delinquency and use of various substances, but also because he was not a deciding factor in this investigation and not responsible for his cousin’s care and custody.

So here Sherlock found himself, politely nursing a cup of bland tea as he occupied the couch in the Dursleys’ living room. Mrs Dursley was ‘entertaining’ him with some dull small-talk he paid no attention to while Mr Dursley went to their neighbour’s house to bring their nephew home.

Sherlock was further displeased with the fact that the vulgarly obese man had to go in person to call the boy home because they would most obviously never deign to buy him a cellphone of his own, even in a day and age where the world revolved around these devices.

He was unable to glean the exact degree of Harry’s abuse from the house, beside the fact that he was likely not allowed many – if any – privileges and that he was severely disliked and thought of as an embarrassment, as proven by the fact that there were no pictures to be found of either Harry or his parents anywhere within the residence.

The opening and nearly slammed-closing of the front door startled Sherlock and he was momentarily disgusted at how clearly affected he was by this whole affair. The army doctor had been too much of an influence on him over the years, he was growing soft.

His disgust was wiped from his mind, as were most of his thoughts, the moment he locked eyes with a pair of emerald ones.

Lily’s eyes.

Deep within his mind, there was an alarm blaring faintly, forewarning some ominous comings. Overcoming stupor, Sherlock’s bright, ever-changing eyes were racing over the slight form and the other features of the boy, over his dark, messy hair, his gaunt, angular face, his lanky limbs and long digits.

Something came crashing, maybe a heavy weight on Sherlock’s shoulders, maybe his heart dropping into his gut, or the cup of lukewarm tea slipping from his fingers. He became vividly aware of two glaringly obvious facts:

  1. _Harry does not, in any form or shape, resemble James Charlus Potter._
  2. _Mycroft is an unredeemable, manipulating arsehole._



_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has already been posted on my ff.net account, but I shall update on both sites constantly.  
> Doodles and sketches related to this story are available on my tumblr or deviantart accounts, which can be found on my profile.  
> Updates are due once every two weeks, on Sundays. Chapter Three will be up on November 27.  
> Hello, AO3 :) It's nice to meet you! Hope we have a nice, amiable relationship.


	2. The Guy from Telly

Harry was not having a good day.

The previous week, one of his best friends, Ron Weasley had held a telephone for the first time in his life and had attempted to contact him at his house, resulting in an enraged Uncle Vernon and radio silence on his friend’s and also Hermione’s – his other best friend – parts.

He was also feeling cranky because of the late nights he was keeping in order to do his holiday homework, which was the only time he could do so, since the Dursleys banned anything labelled magic in their household.

On top of it all, most of the days he was forced to keep Mrs Figg company, and although it was infinitely better than staying at home and listening to the Dursleys go on about their oh-so-very-ordinary lives, Mrs Figg was nonetheless an old cat lady who had old people hobbies and was interested in old people things.

So no, Harry was not in the best of moods the moment his Uncle appeared in Mrs Figg’s doorway and barked at him to come home. Scowling, he obeyed, and although his curiosity burned, he resisted asking him the reason for the need for his presence.

Harry’s patience was soon rewarded. The moment they were outside the house, Vernon pulled him harshly to a stop by the arm, his meaty fingers curling painfully tight around his skinny, almost non-existent bicep.

“Now you listen here, boy. There is a man here asking to meet you. So far, he doesn’t seem like one of _your lot_ ,” the last words were uttered venomously, spittle flying all over Harry’s face and clothes. “He’s a respectable sort so you’ll do your very best and _behave_. No nonsense or freakishness while he’s here, no talk about your weird school and that world. Just be quiet and speak only when asked to.”

With a few good shakes, he was fortunately let go. Harry rubbed his aching arm but nodded in consent. A Muggle, wanting to meet _him_? He had no friends from primary school, had had little contact with adults over the years, not nearly enough to stir someone’s interest. And as far as he knew, his parents had lived in a magical district up until their deaths, so all _their_ acquaintances were wizards or witches as well.

Along the way, they came across Dudley, who was just parting with one of his friends. Uncle Vernon brought his son up to date with the situation and muttered something about presenting his son with not inconsiderable pride in his voice.

Before entering the house, the hulking uncle had stopped Harry once again to glare at him warningly for a few long moments, while Dudley entered first, not all that eager to meet ‘a boring old man’. Vernon pushed him in and shut the door quickly, then announced their return.

Once Dudley had moved enough that Harry might be able to see at least a part of the living room, the young wizard became aware of a pair of uncomfortably piercing eyes offering him their full focus. The man sitting on the Dursleys’ overly cozy couch looked greatly out of place, with his dark, tailor-made suit and stiff posture. He was a handsome man with his unique face and would most likely tower over everyone in the room, and although his pale, aristocratic features seemed ageless, the nearly invisible, but still there stress lines and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth placed him around the age of forty. He also seemed rather familiar for some reason.

Harry was instantly intimidated by this elegant individual and he stood in place uneasily, unsure of how to proceed. The stranger, however, seemed equally frozen, for his intelligent eyes had widened the moment they met Harry’s and he had not moved or breathed ever since.

The odd episode passed all too soon, though, as Dudley exclaimed, pointing rudely at their guest,

“Mum! That’s that guy from telly, that fake, crazy detective who offed himself!”

The Dursleys were stunned by the revelation. Harry himself was astonished. A Muggle detective? Why would he want to meet Harry, though? Could it be that he’d been hired to investigate the Dursleys? But who in Merlin’s name would ever be that concerned about little orphan Harry Potter?

 The man snapped back into reality with a look of growing, tightly suppressed rage on his face. He put aside the teacup that his trembling fingers had mercifully held on to and placed his palms on his knees, seemingly completely unconcerned with his cover being blown.

“I should have known,” his baritone voice murmured. “Lily had told me about her sister."

“Look here, I won’t have no nonsense in this household, mister,” Vernon Dursley started, his face growing red. “If you’re here to stir up trouble-“

“You will restrain yourself, Mr Dursley, or I shall be forced to share with your wife the details of your… indiscretions,” the man cut in coldly, the last word being drawled suggestively.

Uncle Vernon seemed to know what he was referring to, for he quickly grew quiet, despite his even ruddier cheeks.

“I am here on a personal matter. Lily Potter had informed me years ago about your treatment of her and her world, so it should not have come as a surprise that this would carry on to your care of her son. If ‘care’ is even the appropriate word for it.”

The man rose from his seat and buttoned his jacket. His gaze found Harry’s. “Go to your room and gather your belongings.”

Harry gaped, taken aback. “Wh-“

“Now wait just a moment- what do you-!“ Aunt Petunia protested weakly.

“Harry will be coming with me. Your guardianship does not benefit him by any means and should not be allowed to continue.”

Uncle Vernon finally found his voice. “How dare you! We’re his relatives, what makes you think you have any chance of gaining custody of the boy?”

Harry was slightly surprised that the Dursleys would make even the smallest attempt to keep him instead of eagerly throwing him out to the wolves, but he supposed that they might find themselves in trouble with the police if news ever reached them of his years in the cupboard under the stairs.

The man straightened to his full height and glared down at the man easily four times his width. “I assure you, Mr Dursley, that my custody of Harry Potter will come unchallenged,” his low tone seemed both sincere and threatening at the same time. With that, he turned away to look pointedly at the bewildered wizard, who scrambled up the stairs to pack his things.

Harry was unsure what to make of this entire matter. The man, whose name he did not even know yet, seemed to have been acquainted with his mother. A friend? And if his words were anything to go by, he knew about magic, but was not a wizard himself. ‘ _Her_ world’, he said. A Muggle who knew about magic? Was it even legal? Maybe he was married to a witch himself, or something.

He also seemed to care about Harry’s wellbeing, though it could also be a ploy to take him away from his home, unable to be found by his friends and the Wizarding World. The man seemed honest enough in his claims about custody and his fury over Harry’s upbringing.

All in all, Harry was relieved to escape from the Hell that is his aunt and uncle’s home but knew not whether he could really trust this stranger. He had always wanted a family of his own, somebody who truly cared about him… Could this be it? Was he a fool to raise his hopes?

He returned downstairs with the few meager possessions he had in terms of clothes and self-care items, as well as a sleeping Hedwig in her cage to find the strange man dressed in an imposing longcoat with an upturned collar. He scanned Harry for a split-second and asked, “What about your… special school equipment?”

Vernon grudgingly stepped forward and unlocked the hated cupboard which contained his broom, uniform, books, and all the other magic-related stuff while Harry still eyed the mind-reading man warily. Harry brightened at the sight of them all, while the man soured further as he analysed the cupboard.

Once Harry had shoved all that he could into his trunk, the man grabbed on to it and the small suitcase while Harry held his carefully wrapped broom and the covered cage. Without any last regard for the Dursleys, they hailed a cab and were off, Privet Drive soon fading from Harry’s view.

Within the silence of the cab, Harry took a breath and thought back on the radical events of the day. It seemed surreal. He had finally left his relatives behind and with any luck, he’d never have to deal with them ever again. What in the world had just happened?

He snuck a hesitant glance at his companion. The detective seemed deep in thought, his brows slightly furrowed. Harry opened his mouth… then closed it. The process repeated itself for a few more seconds.

“While that is a very convincing impersonation of a goldfish, I’m afraid I have to ask you to speak up and be done with it.”

Harry blushed in embarrassment. “Sorry. Well, I… I don’t even know your name and I’m going to be staying with you. You already know mine, obviously…” he trailed off awkwardly.

The man stared at him unreadably. Then he rolled his eyes. “They were always so ignorant of the Muggle world. If you had ever read a newspaper you would have known my name, though I suppose this could be a blessing in disguise. Sherlock Holmes.”

Harry shook his hand reluctantly. He’d not had the chance to shake someone’s hand all that often. It seemed such an adult thing for him, slightly too serious.

“How… how did you know my mother? If you don’t mind me asking, of course, sir,” he mumbled the last part.

Mr Holmes turned to stare out the window and Harry almost thought he would not answer. “She was studying Chemistry at the University I conducted my research in at the time,” he said. And he offered no more, the rest of the ride being spent in a deep silence.

…

Harry’s first week as a tenant of 221B Baker Street was an odd one.

He had marveled at the sight of the quirky flat, with its Victorian wallpaper with a neon yellow smiley face graffitied onto in it and then shot at, the bison skull with headphones, the genuine human skull on the mantelpiece and the mismatched armchairs.

Harry had also been introduced to Mrs Hudson, who was a kind little old lady with a knack for baking sweets. He had been fussed over and cooed at and had gotten treated to a warm cuppa and some delightful biscuits, then Mrs Hudson had given her veteran tenant a good scolding for not ‘feeding the boy something as soon as he was out of that horrible home’. He liked Mrs Hudson and how she was able to chastise the six feet tall, dark and daunting detective.

He’d been settled in the upstairs bedroom, which he had taken the time to decorate with his few belongings, placing each in its own, special place. Sometimes, Harry liked to just stand in his new bedroom and admire how it looked like it belonged to him, and take note with great relief of the lack of locks on his door.

Mr Holmes had been away for quite a few times during the week. This did not bother Harry, as he was used to entertaining himself and he was already quite unsure how to interact with the older man. He was at home for dinner without fail, however, and he always asked Harry whether he’d eaten breakfast and lunch at Mrs Hudson’s.

Harry thought that maybe Mr Holmes was on a case, which would explain his long times away, but then he’d been able to witness him listening to quite a few clients during the week, most of whom he’d turned away after a mere two minutes of them explaining their case, which Harry found weird and extraordinary at the same time. If he’d thought the Wizarding World was weird before, Sherlock Holmes proved to be an even odder enigma.

What Harry found the most puzzling, though, was the fact that the detective seemed to be _avoiding_ him. During the little time he was at home, he never spoke to Harry unless he was asked something or if it was related to Harry’s eating and sleeping habits or other needs. Outside of meal time, he was most often deeply entrenched in an experiment and if Harry ever tried to catch his gaze, the man would avert his. At one time, though, he’d caught Mr Holmes staring at him with a pained and longing expression, lost deeply in thought. Once he’d realised he’d been noticed, though, his face smoothed over and he turned back to reading through cold cases.

Harry was brought out of his ruminations by the very man who was on his mind, however, as he stormed into the living room through the front door and stopped before him.

“Get dressed,” Mr Holmes ordered swiftly. “We’re going out.”

Harry frowned at the lack of explanation but obeyed. After a characteristically silent cab ride, they were standing in front of a small clinic. He grew anxious, unsure of the purpose of this sudden visit, though he continued to follow his unofficial guardian in.

“I’m here to see John Watson,” the older man said to the front desk clerk. Her eyes widened in recognition, but she soon smiled warmly.

“Mr Holmes! Of course, Dr Watson is on break right now, you can go right in.”

He nodded and walked to a door with the letters ‘DR. JOHN H. WATSON’ plastered on it. He opened the door to the office and walked in without knocking, motioning Harry to follow and closing it after him.

A middle-aged man with greying blonde hair and kind dark blue eyes was sitting at the desk inside, currently focused on a file. His face was peppered with many lines which only served to soften his features, fact proven when the corners of his eyes wrinkled affectionately as they wandered over to a frame on his desk. The moment the door closed, he looked up from his work.

“Sherlock,” he called in surprise. His lips curled in a small smile. “Didn’t know you were stopping by. Who’s this you’ve-“ his words died in his throat as he noticed his friend’s young companion. He remained frozen with his mouth open and his gaze pinned on the newcomer for a quite a few seconds.

The silence was broken when some sort of realisation set in the man’s aged eyes and Dr Watson suddenly stood from his desk, his chair nearly being knocked down with the force of his movement. “What…” he stuttered, staring wide-eyed at Harry.”What…”

“Don’t hurt yourself, John,” Mr Holmes drawled sardonically. He wasn’t smirking though. If anything, he seemed slightly apprehensive.

The doctor gathered his wits, took a deep breath and locked his jaw tight before walking up to them. Mr Holmes grimaced but stood still, as if knowing what was to come.

Then Dr Watson socked him in the face.

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's chapter two, as well. Looking forward to seeing you at the next update :)


	3. Dr Watson

Silence filled the office of one particular doctor during one particular summer afternoon. Two old friends, who had been through hell and back together, sat at a safe distance from each other, but close enough to suggest a delicate discussion of great importance.

John and Sherlock stared at each other in this tense silence - or rather, John stared accusingly and Sherlock tried very hard not to look away and paint himself as feeling… intimidated. Or uncertain. Which he was not, of course.

“How could you…?” John uttered stiffly. “All these years I’ve known you, and you’ve been hiding something this big from me. I’ve killed a man for you, Sherlock! What else are you hiding? A wife, maybe? …Have you ever trusted me at all? Oh, I forgot, sociopaths don’t trust or even _like_ other people.”

“I’ve not hidden this from you,” Sherlock murmured, his tone growing firmer as he continued, cutting John’s protests. “Because I was not aware of it myself to hide it.”

John’s eyes studied him searchingly for a few long moments. Then his outrage and anger left him, deflating visibly and leaving him suddenly exhausted as he slumped in his chair. “You have a son,” he whispered disbelievingly.

 _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people _reproduced_ , for Heaven’s sake. John was tempted to look through the window to check whether the sky would soon be falling over them all.

The doctor would also only later realise that Sherlock having a preteen son, as opposed to John’s own infant little girl meant that the over-bearing arsehole had one-upped him in yet another department. But for the moment, such trivialities were far, far away from his troubled mind.

“Yes,” and Sherlock’s shoulders eased as well.

“This… this is related to that ‘person of importance’, isn’t it? Is she his mother?” John asked carefully.

“…Yes. Jane was her middle name.”

“And what’s her given one?”

“Lily,” he answered and grew quiet after.

There were many questions on John’s mind, but not many he was sure were appropriate to address in that moment. After all, there was a twelve-year old boy – _Sherlock’s_ son - waiting outside his office and he was probably scared and confused. He _had_ , after all, broken his new guardian’s nose. He would likely not know what to assume.

And Sherlock did not seem at all in a state to have such a discussion either. The pale, bony hand holding a tissue to his bleeding nose – _“If you break my nose one more time, John, you might just permanently change its shape.”_ – was trembling and his age was more visible than ever, downturned mouth and distressed eyes lined with wrinkles. Sherlock Holmes had always had eternally youthful features which John had sometimes been envious of, but it seemed that time slowed down for no one, not even the great detective.

“Does he know?” was the only question he would ask for now. Everything else would have to wait.

Sherlock frowned even harder and his eyes met John’s wholeheartedly. “No,” and a touch of concern and – dare he say it - _fear_ was lining that small word.

Fear for the boy? He would be shocked to have his whole world changed, to know that the man he had thought had been his father was actually not and that the woman that had been his mother had given birth to him out of wedlock, maybe even cheated on her husband. That he was a bastard.

Fear for himself, even? The boy could react badly to the news. He could hate him for coming into his life so late, to have allowed him to be abused by his relatives, to build his life upon his dead parents, only to find out everything he had ever known and thought of said parents was a lie. That they might not have been a perfectly in love couple and that they might not have both loved him, after all.

Or he might be afraid of the change a child, a _son_ of his own might bring to his life. John was well aware what a critical difference a child could make to one’s lifestyle. And although Sherlock had grown accustomed to Emily and was affectionate to her, in his own way, she was not his daughter and therefore not his full responsibility.

“You have to tell him, Sherlock,” John advised firmly. “He has to know.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. “I know.”

…

Harry found he rather liked Dr Watson.

After the incident where said man punched Mr Holmes, he had been ushered into a chair in the waiting room outside and the two of them had retreated into the office, only to resurface a good fifteen minutes later. During said time, Harry had shifted uneasily in his seat, thrown by the whole chain of events and uncertain what to even start making of it all. Obviously, Dr Watson’s issue with his guardian concerned Harry. Beyond that… Was Dr Watson shocked to find out his friend had taken a minor under his wing? Was he troubled by it? Dr Watson had been scanning him, looking and seemingly finding something. Did Harry resemble a mutual acquaintance of theirs? Thankfully, he found he didn’t much need to deduce anything.

Or at least, that he could momentarily shelve the conundrum, to pick it apart later, when not faced with impending introductions and maybe the revelation of his and Mr Holmes’ purpose at the clinic.

Once they had sorted out whatever issues they had, the doctor had seemed in much better spirits and the detective’s nosebleed had ceased. He was called in for the purpose of the whole visit, which was a mere check-up. Harry sighed in relief as he found out this and the doctor shot his guardian a pointed glare.

“You couldn’t tell him you were here for a check-up?” he asked tersely.           

“I thought it was rather obvious,” Mr Holmes protested defensively. “What else would I bring him to a clinic for? To experiment on him?” Harry felt rather silly now that he thought about it, too.

The older man merely shook his head, as if used to the exasperation generated by the presence of Sherlock Holmes and looked at Harry sympathetically, knowing what he was thinking and trying to express that he had been right to be wary, despite what his guardian might have said.

The familiarity of these two men, present in Mr Holmes’ casual posture while in the same room as the older man, and in his allowing said man to huff unimpressedly at his antics, as well as Dr Watson’s good-natured quips at the detective’s expense, suggested a great amount of trust. Sure, you could look at an ordinary couple of friends and say that there was no difference between the given situations, but Mr Holmes for one didn’t seem like the kind of man to confide in another human being so easily. And Dr Watson himself, with his stiff, military gait and warm, but wise and weathered gaze, held all the signs of a burdened life.

Either they had known each other for more than a few years, and/or they had gone through a lot together. It reminded Harry of him and Ron. Or at least, he wished his friendship with Ron would last enough that they may become fully-mature adults with such a comfortable interaction.

Harry had no disillusions about life and he tried hard to keep that up. He knew that childhood friendships had small chances of lasting beyond graduation. And Harry and Ron were very different to being with. Ron was happy enough to procrastinate on his studies and homework, labelling most subjects boring and finding it hard to keep his grades above-average, whereas Harry had this innate burning thirst to _know_. If ever he got really passionate about a subject, he was all too willing to spend his days – the ones that the Dursleys allowed him out of the house - with his nose in a book, so much so that the librarian was often forced to throw him out in order to be able to close the facility.

Harry had a feeling that he’d have an easier time with curriculum if he just let himself to fall into those old habits, but his eventful time at Hogwarts seldom allowed for his previous hobbies. Between murderous teachers, giant snakes and oily-haired pricks, he barely had time to finish his homework. And somehow, he lacked the proper motivation nowadays. But he tried not to read too much into it. He supposed he had enough on his plate as it were.

Examination results were mostly good. Even the bruising on his arm where Uncle Vernon had clenched him was nearly healed. His pale skin had always bruised easily, matter not helped by the Dursleys’ less-than-affectionate touch. He was underweight, however, which was likely the reason for his small height, Dr Watson claimed. He then proceeded to lecture Mr Holmes lengthily about regular, healthy meals that did not contain take-out or junk food. The latter endured this with merely a bored eye roll and a displeased grimace.

“Mr Holmes and I have dinner together every day, and I have my other meals at Mrs Hudson’s when he’s away,” he interrupted, deciding to have mercy on him.

Dr Watson looked shocked at this. “ _You_ , having a regular, _daily meal?_ ”

Mr Holmes looked disgruntled and refused to rise to the bait.

The visit concluded shortly after that with a – begrudging, on his guardian’s part - promise to Dr Watson to join him and his family for dinner on Saturday night. They did not immediately return to the flat though.

Noticing Harry’s confusion as the cab stopped in front of a shopping complex, Mr Holmes must have taken Dr Watson’s discontentment to heart because he explained: “We have to get you some new clothing.”

Harry remained baffled, until he remembered that normal people, with normal, healthy familial environments sometimes have their own clothes, which were bought new and specifically for them. He brightened, looking at his companion with eager eyes.

If Mr Holmes noticed his initial turmoil, he did not remark upon it, though his eyes had softened a bit. “I couldn’t very well let you wear those horrendous rags of your cousin’s, now could I? They do not even remotely fit you.”

Several hours, a dozen apparel shops, a couple thousand pounds and a miffed shopkeeper later, they were on route home, both armed with so many paper bags they barely managed to hold them up.

Harry felt severely guilty for drying his guardian’s credit card so much, but the man would hear none of it. He would only buy quality clothing from renowned brands, and at the young wizard’s protests that he would be wearing ‘mundane’ – Muggle was too odd a term to use in public, and Harry was not as oblivious as most of the Wizarding World seemed to be – clothes during his vacation and holidays, he firmly asserted that Harry would nonetheless need more than just two pairs of trousers, some shirts and a coat or jacket. Instead, they had assembled an entire wardrobe. Harry was uncertain they would all fit in his room, but Mr Holmes reassured him that Dr Watson’s old wardrobe and drawers were plenty of space.

He and Mr Holmes had just climbed the stairs up to 221B with great difficulty when his guardian’s remark about women and the strain of shopping was suddenly cut off. Looking up from where he had rested the bags on the ground, Harry noticed that the older man was standing stiffly in the doorway to the living room.

Inside, a sharply-dressed, subtly balding man was sitting cross-legged in the red armchair, the one that Mr Holmes never occupied, the one he sometimes looked at with a lost expression, until Harry walked up and seated himself in it. He was playing idly with an umbrella and had looked up at them the moment Harry entered the room.

“Has your chat with the good doctor proved fruitful?” the man drawled in a high-class accent. Posh was too vague a term, no. Public school? His guardian spoke with a similar accent, Harry noted.

Mr Holmes was silent.

“Won’t you introduce us?”

“You should have told me,” the detective spat through clenched teeth. “You let me run in blindly-“

“There’s really no need to be so hostile. We both know you’d never have gone if I had told you.”

“How would _you_ know, Mycroft?”

The newly-named Mycroft tapped his umbrella onto the ground. It seemed a signal or a warning of some sort. “I know you,” he said finally, piercing Mr Holmes with a look Harry couldn’t read, and something passed unspoken between the two. “Now then…”

A pale hand settled on Harry’s shoulder. Harry felt a sudden wave of warmth wash over him. How often had Vernon Dursley laid a similarly sized, but much less elegant hand, on Harry’s shoulder? The difference between their intent and opinion regarding the boy they had under their ‘wing’ had never been more obvious. “Harry, this is my older _brother_ , Mycroft Holmes. Harry Potter.”

Mr Holmes, the older one, had a gaze as analytical as his younger brother’s, but his seemed colder, apathetic. It studied Harry for a few mere seconds before,

“You haven’t told him yet. There seems to be a theme here.”

Mr Holmes the Younger’s – this was becoming confusing – hand clenched on his shoulder. Harry frowned. What was he talking about?

The older brother smiled thinly, “I’ll leave you to your… heart-to-heart, then.”

With that, he rose gracefully, patted his suit to smooth out any wrinkles and made his way out of the flat, offering only a nod to his brother as he passed him.

“What did he mean?” Harry asked quietly. He was afraid of the answer. He was growing content with life at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was like a doting grandmother to him, while Dr Watson was the funny, helpful uncle Harry would like to get to know more and he was sure he’d enjoy meeting the rest of the Watsons as well. He had his own room and now his own clothes as well. Mr Holmes himself was an irregular and quirky man, but he did seem to care, though he had different ways of showing it and Harry was pretty fond of him even after only a week. Stuff could not buy his happiness and love, true, but so far fate was finally good to him and he had been given some things so precious, both material and immaterial that he was having a hard time believing this was not just a dream.

He didn’t want to go back to the Dursleys. He didn’t want to be orphan little Potter for the rest of his miserable life. He’d wear all of Dudley’s stained, ratty oversized clothes and sleep on a stiff mattress forever if it would keep him under his new guardian’s care.

Mr Holmes’s limp hand left his shoulder, finally, as he stepped away and towards the window overlooking Baker Street. He was silent for a full, torturous minute, while Harry’s hand found his other arm and grabbed onto it tightly, curling into himself and shifting anxiously.

“You must not fault your mother for what I am about to tell you.”

Harry stared at Mr Holmes’ stiff back incomprehensively. “Why? What do you-“

He turned partially to pierce Harry with intense _blue?_ eyes. “Just promise me you will not, Harry.”

The young wizard nodded reluctantly.

“The reason I came to Privet Drive on that day was indeed that I had heard Lily Potter’s only son was being mistreated. However, the reason for which _you_ left Privet Drive with me on said day and had not been handed to a healthy, functioning foster family is not some deep sympathy I felt for you or a sense of duty towards Lily.”

Mr Holmes stared at Harry, as if suddenly uncertain whether to proceed, then his lips pursed into a thin line and he breathed shakily. “The decision to take you with me was made in the split-second I realised that you are my son.”

Harry’s lungs froze in his chest. “I-“ he choked. “You-“

“I have no proof of it yet. All my investigations so far have been fruitless, and my reach in the magical world is severely limited, at best,” he muttered bitterly, as if addressing some specific individual who was thwarting his attempts.

“However,” and at this he turned to a bookcase and pulled out a well-hidden file from within a book. “I have a few photos of James Potter that Lily left behind when she… left.”

He handed said photos to Harry, who, after a second, managed to lift his unresponsive arm and take them with trembling fingers. James had been a handsome young man with jet black messy, wild locks and wide brown eyes full of mischief. He was tall and thin and he had a funny gait in the moving photos. His smile was so wide it threatened to split his face in two as he danced with a red haired young woman – _his mother_ – in one photo. He looked at Lily with eyes full of love there.

Harry felt something crumbling within him.

He was handed two more photos. One was of a tall, lean man with dark brown curly hair and pale eyes crinkled with a quirky smile and a much shorter young woman with familiar red hair and striking emerald eyes, who was smiling just as contently. This photo did not move like the others. And the man his mother was holding by the waist was not James Potter.

The second photo was one of a fair, skinny boy in a public school uniform. He was unsmiling and looked particularly disgruntled about something, and he could have been called Harry, save for the curliness of his hair and the colour of his eyes.

“That is a photo of me when I was your age.”

Harry dropped onto the couch, staring unseeingly at the photos. His breath was quickening alarmingly fast. An unsettling, hysterical sort of laugh bubbled up in his throat, but he choked on it before it could fully escape. He supposed this was a rather _merciful_ method of breaking the news – what news? It wasn’t true, couldn’t be true – but it felt like a sacrilege.

- _look how much you_ don’t _look like James Potter! ha! what a joke! stupid. how could you ever think you were ever entitled to any respect you’re not even a proper wizard, couldn’t even figure out as much, so oblivious, so DULL, just a little orphan, bastard, freakfreakfreak-_

 He had a copy of one of those photographs, of James and Lily dancing, he had been gifted it by kind Hagrid on Christmas along with all the others in that thoughtful album he made for Harry. How he had treasured those photos…! _My mother and father,_ he’d thought with awe and grateful tears prickling his eyes.

How those dancing figures and their bright smiles mocked him now….!

“Paternity tests can be taken, but I suppose it’s a rather moot p- Harry.”

Said boy was breathing erratically, on his way to hyperventilating when his vision was filled with Mr Holmes’s face.

“Harry. Harry! Take it easy,” he coaxed, his voice low and firm as he took hold of Harry’s small shoulders. “Breathe. Breathe. Deep breaths, that’s it.”

Once he had calmed down, he pushed his fath- _Mr Holmes_ ’s hands away. Harry stood, photos scattering all around him, and walked up to his room, shutting the door behind him mechanically.

Then he got into bed fully-clothed, burrowing his face in his pillow, trying to force sleep to come, to escape this world that made no sense anymore.

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moar Jawn <3 <3 Bromance Johnlock will be plentiful in this fic, did I mention? I just love these baes. So yes, you can expect to see more of Uncle John in the future :D
> 
> See you on Dec 11th ;)


	4. Try

Things were rapidly becoming _a bit not good_ for one Harry James Potter. …if that was even his real name.

But how was it any of his fault that his life had just turned belly-up in the span of ten little minutes? Well, _had just_ was probably an incorrect way to put it, considering he had escaped his suddenly-suffocating room at Baker Street an hour or so after _the_ dooming confrontation and had been spending quite a few hours in London…

…he had been spending quite a few hours in London getting irrefutably and hopelessly _lost_.

_Stupid,_ Harry thought angrily. How did he expect to coordinate through the maze of a city when he hadn’t ever left the suburbs, save for the times he was heading to Diagon Alley, or the very rare occasion that the Dursleys brought him along during an outing. Baker Street was in the heart of London, on top of it all, and every dullard knew that the city centre was the most complicated to travel.

Still, he couldn’t have stayed for one more moment. After he had retreated to his room, Harry had tried to sleep, but his mind kept racing with all kinds of thoughts, most of which were dipped in anger, betrayal and despair.

Didn’t Harry have a horrible enough life? He muddled on all fours through his first ten years of life in the cupboard under the stairs, under the Dursleys’ restricting presence. He had been given a respite when he was introduced to the beautiful, tempting seductress that was the Wizarding World, a world where he was no longer the odd duckling, the _freak_ , where he could just be a normal boy and have a normal education with normal best friends.

Except even in the unique club, he had to be the _Boy-Who-Lived._ He was put on a pedestal from infancy and once he had been old enough to have his own wand, everyone kept having all these expectations, staring and whispering and comparing him with his oh-so-wonderful parents all the time.

‘Oh, Mr Potter, you’re all your father’s son! But the eyes, the eyes are Lily’s…’

‘A natural at Quidditch, just like James!’

‘He had the same unruly dark hair and skinny figure. If only you wore glasses, nobody would be able to tell you two apart!’

Harry snorted bitterly. _As if._

If his time at Hogwarts wasn’t uncomfortable enough as it was, now he was getting attacked yearly by a supposedly-dead Dark Lord! And people were just letting him defeating Voldemort on his own! What were the Aurors doing, playing Exploding Snap?

And when all had been said and done and Harry was finally adapting to his shitstorm of a life, now he found out the _esteemed_ James Potter wasn’t even his real father.

Thus, rest escaped Harry’s grasp and so he got up, hastily grabbed his wand, jacket and a pair of trainers and exited the flat, carefully skipping the creaky, tattle-tale stair step.

 He had been too angry, too frustrated to realise he hadn’t thought for one moment where he was actually going. He merely decided that he needed a walk to clear his mind and make sense of everything that was going on.

Once he’d cooled down a bit, though, he’d realised he had gotten lost.

A moment later, he also noticed he was being tailed.

Harry didn’t dare look around and identify his follower, but he had that unshakable feeling that he was being watched and that he had been for a while. _What a sad thought it was that he knew what that felt like_.

So he kept moving. Although it didn’t improve his _lost_ status, he subtly increased his speed and started taking sharp corners, in an attempt to shake off his tail. Once he was rid of any unwanted attention, he would find a police station or something and locate his position. That was the easy part, compared to his current task.

At one point, he noticed in the reflection of a window meters away from him that his tail was a nondescript, expensive looking black car that was moving at a suspiciously slow pace. He turned down an alley between blocks, as far from the road as he could.

After several fence jumps, a hissing cat and quite a few soda cans disturbed, Harry’s breathing was increasingly burdened with exertion and a slight feeling of anxiety. Why did he still feel watched? He had ducked through tight spaces, even for him! He’d kept to the sidewalk! How the hell would a car ever fit through there?

His bright emerald eyes widened as he realised that this could be a wizarding individual. A Death Eater…? He panted shakily and his right hand drifted towards the pocket in his jeans that contained his wand.

Just as he exited the tight alley, meeting a relatively empty street, he tried to round the corner only to find his path abruptly blocked by the ominous car screeching to a stop in front of him. Harry froze where he stood, his hand sneaking into his pocket and clenching his wand in a tight grip.

The back door opened on its own to reveal a partially shaded man. Before Harry could panic, though, a voice carried across firmly.

“Calmly let go of your wand, Mister Potter. Wouldn’t do to commit underage wizardry for no justifiable reason.”

Harry swallowed but made no move to take his hand out of his pocket, glaring defiantly instead. The voice seemed familiar, but Harry was too thrown, too agitated to bother to try and identify its owner from memory.

“And do get in, before your rather unsavoury _admirer_ works up the courage to _introduce himself_ ,” the voice ordered in a calm, but firm voice.

And indeed, with the corner of his eye, Harry spied a dark figure not enough meters away, not hiding but not conspicuous. At least to Muggles.

So he got in, the door closing behind him almost immediately, and the car taking off.

As he looked to his companion, Harry almost sighed in relief as he recognised the umbrella and the thin ginger hair. _Almost,_ because Mycroft Holmes _had_ still stalked him for quite a few blocks and nearly abducted him, so Harry couldn’t be too sure of his motives. He certainly didn’t seem the type to be following him on _the other Holmes’_ instructions.

Thus he regarded Holmes senior warily, keeping a comfortable distance from him. If the man noticed, he didn’t remark upon it. “That man has been following you almost the entire evening. Fortunately, he does not seem to be aware of your current residence yet.”

“Thanks?” Harry muttered uncertainly. His unasked questions were lined in his tone of voice. _He’s a Death Eater, I can understand him. But why have_ you _been stalking me?_

Instead, Harry asked, “How do you know about the Wizarding World?”

The man looked at him slyly. “I hold a _minor_ position within the British Government. Such knowledge is obligatory.”

Which Harry translated as _I’m so important even the Statute of Secrecy doesn’t apply to me._ But he accepted this explanation as it was.

The older man kept quiet for a few moments after that, during which he seemed to be searching for the right words.

“It was I who set Sherlock on that fateful search.”

Emerald eyes fixated on him, anxious and anticipating at the same time. He sighed a little wearily. “While handling a matter related to my work, I found out… about you,” he said this awkwardly, as if avoiding saying _the words_ outright. “and dropped him a few hints, enough to give him something to think about, not enough for him to piece the entire puzzle.”

Harry was unsure what to think of this, though a few choice words wandered through his thoughts. Holmes senior must have sensed this. “I suppose there were… more appropriate ways of proceeding with the given data.”

The young wizard realised with wry humour that this was the older Homes’ manner of _apologising_. He suppressed his grin and nodded in reply. “Alright.”

Holmes senior’s apology didn’t solve his issue, though, and Harry found himself drawn back to conflicted contemplation. Suddenly, it occurred to him the he hadn’t even asked the man where he was being taken.

His question was answered just as he was preparing to ask it, when the car slowly slid to a stop in front of 221 Baker Street. Harry’s brows furrowed in turmoil at the mere sight of it, even though he knew he would have had to return there, eventually. At least to pack his bags.

_To go to your loving aunt Marge, because if the dear Dursleys won’t take you back and you won’t settle with your illegitimate father, of course you’ve got other options,_ he thought sardonically. _Or maybe you’ll go to some doting grandmother out in the countryside, with a white picket fence and a golden retriever, while you’re at it._

“My brother and I are not sentimental men,” his companion’s voice interrupted his self-pitying. Harry turned to look at him. He was not looking at Harry, though. He was focusing on his hands, which were shifting on the handle of his brolly rhythmically. “Sherlock’s efforts this past week, however, are undeniable, baffling though they may be to me.”

And he offered no more. His expression was unreadable as he turned to face Harry. “Good evening, Mr Potter.”

The young wizard frowned, not quite having processed through what the older Holmes shared with him, and he was a little frustrated that he wasn’t offered a proper explanation. Still, he opened the door of the car and got out shakily, just now fully realizing how exhausted he was. It must have been past 3 am. And his muscles were trembling after the earlier run.

Before he closed the door, though, he looked at the man inside the care one more time. “Thank you… uncle Mycroft.”

Then he shut the door before he could catch said uncle’s flabbergasted expression.

With his head clearer than it had been just after the revelation, Harry was able to think on the matter more thoroughly. His _uncle’s_ words held some truth to them, truth Harry was already aware of but which he had overlooked in his rage and disbelief.

Mr Holmes, even though he hadn’t… _fathered_ Harry in the most socially-acceptable of ways, had been good to him, indeed. Sure, he was an odd fellow and Harry wasn’t entirely certain what his intentions were , but he _had_ extracted him from an awful household and taken care of him ever since - and Harry was used to ‘odd’. He spent nine months a year in a magical castle, for Merlin’s sake!

Was it really so fair of Harry to completely reject his presence so recklessly, when Mr Holmes himself had not done as most fathers of lovechildren would do in his situation?

Swallowing uneasily as he returned to his great issue, Harry walked up to the front door to 221 Baker St. He opened it with only a split-second’s hesitation, closed it softly. Took the steps with great care. The door to 221B was mercifully open, though.

 And 221B was suspiciously empty. Harry ducked into the kitchen, to no avail. He was aware that Mr Holmes did not sleep much, so for him to be absent from the living room at this hour was thought-stirring. If he _did_ go to bed, though, the lights would not be on.

He was interrupted by the sound of the front door closing not as quietly as he had closed it. Which actually meant quite slammed.

“…going to go back out… I am aware of the hour. It’s even more of a reason to keep looking-… yes, I know, and you can retire if you have to, but I _won’t- I can’t,_ John. I can’t let anything happen to him, and it’s already been-“

Mr Holmes’ baritone cut off as he reached the living room and noticed Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of it. The hand holding the phone to his ear dropped away, the phone slipping from it with a dull thud the moment it impacted the floor.

And Harry suddenly found himself surrounded by dark wool and warmth. Long, bony fingers covered the back of his neck firmly and his eyes pricked as he realised he never wanted it to end. Harry had never been a cuddly person. He very rarely touched his friends out of his own volition, and when _they_ initiated contact, he almost always kept it short. How could he feel so safe in the embrace of a man he had only known for a week?

Mr Holmes pulled away, his hands remaining on Harry’s shoulders. Ever-changing eyes –currently blue and frantic – scanned him for a moment, then he sighed almost imperceptibly. “Harry, you… you cannot do this ever again… you _cannot…_ you could’ve been…”

He had started out firmly, but his deep voice had only gotten shakier. He took a step away, leaving Harry’s personal bubble. His lips moved, and although his voice was too low to be heard anymore, Harry thought he read _Thank god._

The young wizard tried to find something to say, but words escaped him. He was sad, and angry, and confused and longing and hopeful and he did not know what to do.

Mr Holmes turned away. He took his coat and scarf off meticulously, then, after a second’s contemplation, he strode over to his favoured armchair and sat on its edge, unable to get comfortable. Harry followed his movements, although slightly delayed, and sat slowly in John’s old armchair.

The detective brought his hands to his lips in the characteristic steepled motion, though it did not hold the same air of detachment as it usually did.

“I can arrange for you to be placed with a foster family. A proper one, with a safe environment and the potential of a content childhood. Heaven knows this would be child’s play for Mycroft,” the last part was muttered.

Harry froze, his gaze unmoving from Mr Holmes’ form. _This is what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it? A happy, married couple I could call Mum and Dad, a pet. A dog. Could be called Snuffles._

Strangely, the thought left Harry cold.

“It is much too late for me to enter your life at this point, one would claim. It is unfair to ask of you to accept my existence after all you’ve already gone through. And I _should_ do the right thing by you and make sure you are taken care of, at the very least.”

Mr Holmes shifted in his seat.

“But I…” and he paused. His eyes searched Harry’s and the intensity of them threw Harry for a moment, the multitude of emotions they expressed. “I would like to make this work. I would like to…” _get to know you take care of you watch you grow up be proud of you love you,_ “…try.”

This was Harry’s choice. Mr Holmes had grown quiet, only looking at Harry with anticipation, but also patience.

And Harry fisted his trousers over his knees, returning Mr Holmes’ gaze in full, with nothing but honesty and fragile emotion. “…I think I’d like that, too. Yeah.”

His hopeful smile was met with a small, but no less sincere one.

…

_“Harry! Come eat your breakfast or I’ll just use it in my next experiment!”_

_Experiment…?_

A moment later, the first floor kitchen window was close enough to reveal a tall, lithe man with wild curly hair leaning over the stove, dumping the contents of the pan in his hand into a clean plate. He then placed the meal on the overly-clustered table in the middle of the room. The mess around the plate seemed to have a system to it, because it conveniently left just enough space for said plate and maybe even a glass- oh, there came the glass of orange juice.

Every movement of the well-dressed man held a certain elegance, from his turns to his determined stride to his bending. Said man then stopped, pursed his lips and turned to the archway.

“Harry!” he called, more stern than shouting. Mumbling, “Who names their child a nickname? How am I supposed to assert my authority if his name’s Harry, for God’s sake,” he prepared to call again, placing his hands over his waist.

“’m here, you can stop. You’ll wake up Mrs Hudson.”

The familiar voice gained a face as a skinny form in rumpled PJs entered the kitchen. Young Harry James Potter was half-heartedly smoothing over his uncontrollable disaster of a hairstyle as he yawned and dropped into the seat facing the table.

“Mrs Hudson faces no such risk, I assure you. The only one to still be sleeping at this hour of the day is you.”

“Hey, I’m on summer vacation! Sleeping in is a must.”

“Close your mouth while you’re eating. It’s disgusting.”

She watched the scenario enfolding in front of her with great befuddlement. She had engaged into this little venture with no small amount of trepidation, which she had been entitled to. What was one supposed to think when the Boy-Who-Lived simply _vanished_ from his relatives’ care?

Just two days ago, she had entered the Headmaster’s office unannounced only to find him deeply troubled by some matter or the other. As was custom, she nagged him until he surrender the truth. During patrol, an Order member checking in on Privet Drive Number Four had found that Harry Potter was not only no longer residing with the Dursleys, but that he had left them over two weeks earlier.

Albus Dumbledore had, of course, studied the issue from all angles and found out all that he could about what happened and had ultimately decided to do nothing. She had argued with him over it, but he would be unmoved, refused to tell her anything.

_“Harry’s fate is his own. We must not interfere.”_

_Up yer erse wi’ tha’,_ she growled inwardly and promptly decided to see for herself what was to be done. After all, this would not be the first time the Headmaster would make a mistake. He was used to taking morally-dubious decisions for the greater good, but he seemed not to be aware of the fact that it, more often than not, resulted in collateral damage. Or maybe he chose to ignore it. Whatever the truth, she refused to see one of her treasured pupils suffer for it.

Harry had always had a spark of brilliance, and she had gotten annoyed with him numerous times for the fact that he seemed to have no intention of tapping into that dormant potential. His grades were just slightly above average in all subjects, as a matter of fact. But she couldn’t fault him for that. He’d not had the most encouraging of backgrounds.

And that brought her back to the matter of the Dursleys. Many times among the years she’d checked up on little Harry while he was staying with his aunt and uncle, and every time she’d left she was deeply disgusted and self-loathing. How could Albus just allow that to happen? Was there really no other way?

Unfortunately, it seemed so. As Albus had explained patiently each time, because of the blood wards, Harry was the safest with Vernon and Petunia Dursley, no matter how much of a farce that sounded like.

Until now.

As she gazed upon the peculiar man and the mistreated wizard sitting together at the table, completely comfortable with one another, she wondered how many times she had seen Harry look so… content. _Had_ she ever seen him smile so easily, so openly?

She knew not what to make of this new, though suddenly so important person in Harry’s life, but she could sense no malice in his intentions, and he seemed good for Harry’s health.

“It’s rather cold outside today. Do come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

She was startled from her musings to see the older male staring at her. Not beside her, but straight _at her_. He was looking at her expectantly. But how…? _He should not be able to…_ Harry shot him a confused look, before turning to gaze at his companion’s point of focus. The boy’s striking green eyes widened in recognition. Probably the glasses-shaped markings that gave her away.

“That’s…”

She had no choice anymore. Stepping off the windowsill and onto the counter, she leaped down to the floor, turning into her human form. The aging witch pinned the detective with a piercing stare, her lips a thin line of defensive disapproval.

“Mrs… McGonagall, if I recall clearly,” the man completed him calmly, standing to prepare the kettle. “Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Have a seat.”

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Finally got this posted! Studies and work and projects are hell on earth, and it's a miracle that I had any time to bring this chapter to life. But no matter! Exams are coming to a close, and updates will (hopefully) never miss a deadline once I have time to write.
> 
> See you in two weeks ;)


	5. In Which Professor McGonagall Saves the Day

Scrutinising turquoise eyes locked unblinkingly onto ever-changing _blue-green-gray?_ ones. All the while, larger and far more inexperienced emerald eyes than either of the other pairs were watching each in part alternatingly, worriedly, much like following a tennis match. Harry was witness to a Mexican standoff the conclusion of which he was uncertain of – and indeed, one he dreaded.

“It’s _Professor_ , actually,” Minerva broke the ice, sipping her tea calmly.

“Professor McGonagall, then,” Sherlock acknowledged with a nod. “Professor of… Transfiguration, I believe? The art of changing the form and appearance of an animate or inanimate object.”

It was all Minerva could do to keep her rather beautifully-shaped teacup safely within her fingers’ clutch. Her eyes widened minutely, although she managed to recompose herself. Her lips remained in a tight, unnerved line.

“You are correct, Mr Holmes, however much that may seem like an impossibility. May I ask how you came upon such knowledge, seeing as you are most obviously not Magic, nor are you a Squib?” she inquired slowly. Mr Potter could have told the strange man about his… special boarding school, but the Ministry was supervising what was imparted by witches and wizards upon Muggles very carefully. And the man’s custody of the child was unofficial and dubious at best.

Sherlock smiled distantly. “During our… acquaintance, Lily bestowed me with her absolute trust, and revealed much of her education and overall childhood, as well as the fundamentals of Wizarding society. She was exceedingly impressive in her skill of avoiding certain _trigger terms_ that might alert the Ministry.”

Harry perked up at the mention of his famous mother, while Minerva paled. Lily had broken the Statute of Secrecy… for a Muggle? She had been a very intelligent girl for all the years the old teacher had known her, so she was undoubtedly aware of all the consequences of such a felony. To have nonetheless committed it for someone’s sake…

The detective scanned her for a few seconds, his smile falling to reveal serious determination. He placed his cup in its saucer, then on the table near his armchair. “Professor McGonagall,” he started, interlacing his pale, bony digits. “You have obviously come here out of concern for you pupil’s safety and wellbeing. You may rest assured that he is in good hands, or at least much better than he used to be.”

The last he muttered angrily and Minerva found herself agreeing. However…

“That is not all you wish to inform me of,” she stated rather than asked.

“No,” Sherlock acquiesced. “Being a Muggle, there is little influence I can manage in the Wizarding society at the moment. I am in need of your help in a particular matter, seeing as you are the most equipped to handle it.”

She raised both eyebrows at this. What a strange fellow. “Indeed? And what is this matter you speak of?”

“I am afraid Albus Dumbledore has committed a grave mistake. You are the only one who can convince him of this, being one of his most trusted allies.”

“And why would I believe you, if that is the case? You seem aware of the fact that Albus’ word holds considerable weight with me.”

At this, he looked her dead in the eye. “Because I am Harry’s biological father.”

Then he stood statue-still, his posture expressing no-nonsense as he awaited her reply. Truly, Sherlock was more than a little nervous about this whole affair. Harry’s happiness and health was at stake whether this stern aging lady chose to aid him or not, and he was definitely not playing around with those. He loved games, but not when they involved his prodigal son.

What a laugh John would have to hear him even _think_ that there could ever be a time he would not simply adore a little game of wills.

Harry shifted almost imperceptibly, trying his best not to break the thick silence that had fallen over the three of them. This was an adults’ exchange, and he was both glad and overwhelmed that he was allowed to spectate. He was also – though he’d never, _ever_ say it within the Professor’s hearing range – a little amused to see said woman for the first time in his life shocked into speechlessness. She was more humane than most authoritarian teachers, but still strict enough to intimidate.

Meanwhile, Minerva was gaping. If the previous unexpected comment had startled her, this was more than enough to stun even her. And yet, she could not entirely deny the fact that what her conscious was desperate to object to, her subconscious was increasingly resigned about.

“How…” she managed to stutter out eventually. “When…”

The other adult mercifully waited for her to regain her bearings. “Are you certain of this?” she finally asked firmly.

She was met with a sardonic smile. “I have valid reasons to believe it is more than possible.”

Minerva conceded with an odd grimace. Harry blushed scarlet and fought valiantly not to fidget. No sane teenager, regardless of the tangled history of their parents and not-parents and any curiosity relating to it, could ever be comfortable with a discussion of their own conception.

“But James…” the Professor muttered, frowning in turmoil. “Why would Lily ever do such a thing? How _could_ she?”

The detective was quiet for a few long moments, staring into the distance. “It was before she married him. I do not know…” he abruptly trailed off, greatly troubled by some long-past memory.

The old Scotswoman studied his absent expression, then she sighed and looked at Harry. “I suppose the resemblance _is_ uncanny,” she joked softly.

Sobering, she continued, “If what you say is true, Mr Holmes, and it does seem so, then you have yet to tell me what the Headmaster’s fault is in this.”

The moment Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to hers, a horrible feeling had already settled in Minerva’s heart. “Though Lily did return to James, in the event of both their deaths, do you not wonder whether she would have rather wrote down the name of the _actual_ father of her child, instead of that of her dreaded sister’s as said child’s caretaker?”

The Transfiguration Professor shook. “Albus… claimed that all of Harry’s potential guardians were either deceased or imprisoned. There was simply no one but… _them._ ”

Sherlock’s fingers clenched tightly over the armrests and he leaned over slightly. “And if that were true, would there not still be his birth certificate to prove the existence of another _potential guardian_?” he argued tightly, spitting out the last words with unmistakable biterness. “I am not exactly parent material, but _anyone_ would have sufficed, _ANYONE_ but that biped swine and his equally primitive wife.”

He sat back slowly, reigning in his fury after that slight slip-up. As he watched the teacher raise a shaking hand to her mouth, he knew she was remembering Harry’s living conditions for the past twelve years. Given her ability to shapeshift, she was most likely the one tasked with keeping an eye on the child now and then, and must have borne witness to what was taking place in that abominable household.

“Lily’s Last Will and Testament is missing from the Ministry’s public records,” he concluded.

Minerva frowned, trying her best to think logically despite the amalgam of emotions. “Once a deceased witch’s or wizard’s Will has been read, it is magically written into the records. This applies to any and all testaments, and is not undoable.”

Sherlock looked at her pointedly. “Who was the known executor of Lily’s Will?”

Her eyes shot back to his and her features tightened.

…

Ever since finding out about magic, Harry’s life has been in a constant tornado of events, positive as well as less than positive. While he would never regret that moment on his eleventh birthday when Hagrid _stomped_ on that isolated little hut’s door, there have been times when he had needed a breather, the confusion of endless adventures having overwhelmed him to nearly his breaking point.

During his two years at Hogwarts, he had found that refuge in his two best friends’ unwavering loyalty even in the face of certain danger. Still, even a precocious trouble-magnet like himself found himself occasionally seeking the steady wisdom of an adult.

He had never imagined that visiting Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s office would ever create anything but a feeling of safety and respectful wariness.

Witnessing the elderly wizard’s calm, expectant visage the moment they entered the office was what dropped the burden of crushing disappointment and betrayal onto his shoulders.

Mr Holmes’ perceptive eyes flickered over to him, before he felt the slightest brush of an uncertain hand over his shoulder. If Harry had not been so troubled, he would’ve gave the man a weak, but nonetheless grateful smile for his efforts.

 “Minerva,” Dumbledore nodded to his long-time friend and fellow colleague, who merely thinned her lips back. The Headmaster looked at Harry next. “Mr Potter.”

Harry did not answer. He rather chose slight disrespect over opening his mouth and blurting whatever crossed his mind in a fit of rage and desperation.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” Said detective’s expression remained blank, though his manner spoke the world about his impression of the wizard. “Mr Dumbledore,” he returned. “I wish I could say the same, but the circumstances dictate otherwise.”

Dumbledore made a movement with his wand, conjuring three comfy-looking armchairs and gestured towards them in invitation. Once everyone was seated, the old wizard turned to gaze out the window.

“You know why we’re here today,” the Muggle stated, unsurprised.

“You are here because twelve years ago I made a choice for the greater good, regardless of my own wishes,” was the answer he received.

“Greater good…?” Minerva parroted incredulously, her tone rising with each syllable. “For whom, precisely? In all the years I have known you, Albus, I swear…”

The wizard turned to face her, his expression resigned, knowing he deserved her ire, but adamantly in support of his motivation despite it. “No boy should have to live their entire life in the center of attention, not when such a tragedy is the foundation of his fame. Living far away from the magical world for so long was the best option.”

“And you couldn’t have trusted _me_ to shield my own damn son from your bloody magical population? You honestly thought it was better to leave him with a bunch of savages that _locked him up in a bloody cupboard_? For _ten years_ , you just watched and let them do their number while he cleaned, cooked, scrubbed, while he was being yelled at and pushed around, while he was belittled and treated as less-than-human, through all of that, you did _nothing_! You rant and rave about how undercivilised and dull _Muggles_ are,” and he spat out the word mockingly, “and then you just throw one of your own into the lion’s den. And you’re _still better._ ”

Harry stared with wide eyes at the detective all throughout his tirade, not expecting the sudden avalanche of words at all, and certainly not at this intensity, even though it was called for. The rant resumed a lot of Harry’s own frustrations over the years and he was a bit glad there was someone brave – or stupid – enough to point them out so bluntly to a form of authority that could have taken measures and didn’t.

Mr Holmes stared angrily at the old wizard, anxious to hear what the man had to say in his defense in the face of this.

“Can you truly claim that you would have been a good caretaker for Harry at the time, twelve years ago?”

You could’ve heard a pin drop in the suffocating silence that followed Dumbledore’s solemn question. If the detective had been angry before, now he was positively _boiling_ , his bright eyes now icy cold with fury and loathing, but also a conflicted, unreadable emotion.

“That justifies _nothing_. _I deserved to know!_ ” he growled through clenched teeth, obviously as an attempt not to roar and scream and rage at the man.

With that, Mr Holmes leaned back in his seat from his near perch on the edge of the chair, though he remained tense, spine ramrod straight, limbs coiled like springs. Harry stared at his hands, unnerved by the showdown but occasionally sneaking glances at everyone in turn, to try and anticipate whatever their next movement would be. For now, though they had come to a standstill.

Professor McGonagall was surreptitiously watching the detective, most likely looking out in case he suddenly jumped out of his seat and throttled the old wizard, though by her crisp, angry and disillusioned visage, she was more than a little tempted to do it herself.

The one to break the pattern was the Headmaster, as usual, when he rose from his seat slowly, for the first time in Harry’s life actually showing the consequences of his old age. He disappeared from their view for a few seconds, then returned with a few yellowed papers in his hand.

“When James and Lily Potter were declared officially deceased and their wills were read, I ensured that most of Lily’s will would be followed to the letter, except for a few select points.”

What was most likely the will, he spread out over his desk. It was obvious that should any of those present be unsatisfied with his credibility, he was willing to read out the entire will for their sake. But after the whole circus, none of them were up for a formal ceremony at this point.

“ ‘ _To William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I leave a letter to be handed by my Executor._ ’ _”_

Dumbledore handed an envelope to the detective, who accepted it after a brief moment’s hesitation. The man held it gingerly, almost reverently, but seemed firm to suppress the instinct to open it at once, instead opting to see the rest of their meeting carried out.

“ ‘ _To my son, Harold William Holmes-Evans, I leave the residue of my estate, including a letter to be handed by my Executor upon his eleventh birthday._ ’ ”

The other envelope was given to Harry. “As James had already left most of his estate to you as well, I had Lily’s savings deposited into the same vault as his,” the old wizard explained carefully, before returning to the last point to be mentioned:

“ ‘ _I appoint William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the biological father of Harold William Holmes-Evans, to be the guardian of my son until he reaches 18 years of age._ ’ ”

He concluded by rolling the manuscript closed, and sliding another piece of paper over the desk towards his guests.

On it, written in old, faded but mostly well-preserved ink, the letters spelled out clearly: _BIRTH CERTIFICATE._

Harry stared dazedly as he read what was apparently his real name. _Harold William Holmes-Evans._ And wasn’t that a mouthful.

Well, at least Mr Holmes won’t be complaining about Harry’s name anymore.

Oh yeah, Mr Holmes’ name was there too.

“Your first name’s William?” Harry blurted.

The man pinned him with a deeply unimpressed look. _That_ was the most relevant line of inquiry on his mind to him? “Unless you’d like me to call you _Will Junior…_ ” the words even left a sour taste in his mouth, they were so idiotic.

“I’m good,” the boy interrupted hurriedly. If Harold was too serious, he had absolutely nothing in common with the name _William_.

He supposed he’d learn to live with it, considering his mother had chosen his name.

Also, his real name was as sentimental as his fake one, apparently.

_Most of all, now I know for sure that he’s my father and legal guardian,_ Harry thought, feeling more than a little relieved and excited by the prospect.

_See you never, Dursleys!_

Harry’s train of thought was interrupted by sudden movement from the corner of his eye, as Mr Holmes stood to pick up the birth certificate. Professor McGonagall was standing as well, by now.

The detective and the old wizard were now having some sort of silent exchange.

“Was it worth it?”                                                                                                                                                                    

Both of them turned to look at Harry in slight surprise. “The choice you made… was it worth it?” he clarified tentatively.

Dumbledore’s usually twinkling eyes had lost most of their brightness and they actually looked sad as he answered, “I don’t know.”

Harry bit his lip. Albus Dumbledore was a good man. He’d always felt that in his gut, even though the old wizard tended to be more than a little vague. Looking at it objectively, one might suppose that the Headmaster was in a position to take the hard decisions no one else could, for the sake of the wizarding world or whatever.

The boy supposed one day he’d be able to forgive that, not just acknowledge it.

For now, though, he desperately wanted to go home and maybe cry about it for a bit – not that he’d ever admit it aloud. He had his pride, after all. He grabbed Mr Holmes lightly by the sleeve, trying to convey this silently.

The man clearly got the message, because he nodded meaningfully towards the Transfiguration professor, who turned to lead them back out of the office. They left without another word to the Headmaster.

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want more Harry Holmes and Daddy Sherlock fluff, check out my tumblr to see what I've already posted or request something yourself! 
> 
> noxilicious-ish.tumblr.com
> 
> Doodles, headcanons, short stories and questions apply ;)
> 
> See you next time!


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